of you, sir. We rang your place of work just as soon as we knew where to contact—”
“But—”
“As for the press and radio, there’ll be an enquiry into who told them, and—”
“I don’t give a shit about that! My only—”
“Hey, come inside,” said Kramer, motioning him into the house. “You tell me where your ma kept the brandy, and I’ll get you one—hell, I’ll even have some, too.”
Kennedy half-smiled, let his shoulders drop, and led the way, walking like a man who finds the floor a long, long distance beneath him. They went into a large living-room furnished in a mixture of skinny wooden drinks-tables and plump easy chairs covered in a floral pattern. Kramer directed him to sit in one of the chairs, and crossed over to the mahogany cabinet to the right of a huge fireplace. The cabinet was well stocked, containing no less than four different brandies. Choosing the Oude Meester, Kramer poured two double tots, handed Kennedy his glass and sat down on the arm of the sofa.
Nothing was said for a while. They just sipped their brandy and found something to stare at. Kennedy stared at a brass poker, propped beside the grate. Kramer stared at a round, bulging kind of mirror, which gave him an interesting view of the dead woman’s son. Shortened by the mirror’s distortions, which took about twelve inches off his six-foot-two, Kennedy looked a lot like her in a way, having the same dark hair, neat build and high forehead.
“I can’t believe this is happening, that it’s true.…”
“It’s true,” said Kramer.
Kennedy looked up at him.
Unlike the mother, there were laughter-lines on the son’s deeply tanned face—not that he was using any of them right now.
“How?” he asked brusquely, forcing the word out.
“A stabbing,” said Kramer. “Just the once. She died instantly.”
“Jesus.…”
“In the early hours of this morning. She had been in for a swim and was changing back out of her costume. It was on the floor and her clothes were—”
“You mean she was—not dressed?”
Kramer nodded. “But there’d been no sexual interference, if that’s what you’re thinking. More brandy?”
Kennedy didn’t seem to notice the glass being lifted from his grasp. He was staring at the poker again, nibbling gently on his lower lip. Turning from him, Kramer went back over to the drinks cabinet, hiding a frown. He was puzzled by his own behaviour, by the way he’d not attempted to see whether Kennedy had known how many times his mother had been stabbed, when she’d been stabbed, what her state of dress—or undress—had been. It was often amazing, the way even the cleverest killers could let something slip right at the start, before their nerves had steadied and they’d grown accustomed to being questioned. Yet Kramer had played no games with him, had simply given the main facts to him straight, just as though it’d never crossed his mind that Kennedy, being the deceased’s closest relative, should be treated as a major suspect.
Carefully, he poured another double tot, still frowning.
A major suspect? Christ, he hadn’t regarded the man as a suspect at all, not from the first moment of setting eyes on him. He had liked the bloke; it was as simple as that—an intuitive response based on God knows what. On top of which, Kennedy’s reactions had since struck him as entirely genuine, reinforcing the same feeling—but of course this nonsense now had to stop.
“Look, sir,” he said, turning with the refilled glass, “it is necessary for me to ask some questions.”
Kennedy did not appear to hear him. He went on staring atthe brass poker, his teeth clamped hard on his lower lip and a trickle of blood running down his chin.
“God in Heaven,” muttered Colonel Muller, glancing at the proffered press card, “how did you get here so fast?”
“I lucked out, I guess, sir. Flew down from our Johannesburg bureau on another assignment and—”
“But why
“But—”
“As for the press and radio, there’ll be an enquiry into who told them, and—”
“I don’t give a shit about that! My only—”
“Hey, come inside,” said Kramer, motioning him into the house. “You tell me where your ma kept the brandy, and I’ll get you one—hell, I’ll even have some, too.”
Kennedy half-smiled, let his shoulders drop, and led the way, walking like a man who finds the floor a long, long distance beneath him. They went into a large living-room furnished in a mixture of skinny wooden drinks-tables and plump easy chairs covered in a floral pattern. Kramer directed him to sit in one of the chairs, and crossed over to the mahogany cabinet to the right of a huge fireplace. The cabinet was well stocked, containing no less than four different brandies. Choosing the Oude Meester, Kramer poured two double tots, handed Kennedy his glass and sat down on the arm of the sofa.
Nothing was said for a while. They just sipped their brandy and found something to stare at. Kennedy stared at a brass poker, propped beside the grate. Kramer stared at a round, bulging kind of mirror, which gave him an interesting view of the dead woman’s son. Shortened by the mirror’s distortions, which took about twelve inches off his six-foot-two, Kennedy looked a lot like her in a way, having the same dark hair, neat build and high forehead.
“I can’t believe this is happening, that it’s true.…”
“It’s true,” said Kramer.
Kennedy looked up at him.
Unlike the mother, there were laughter-lines on the son’s deeply tanned face—not that he was using any of them right now.
“How?” he asked brusquely, forcing the word out.
“A stabbing,” said Kramer. “Just the once. She died instantly.”
“Jesus.…”
“In the early hours of this morning. She had been in for a swim and was changing back out of her costume. It was on the floor and her clothes were—”
“You mean she was—not dressed?”
Kramer nodded. “But there’d been no sexual interference, if that’s what you’re thinking. More brandy?”
Kennedy didn’t seem to notice the glass being lifted from his grasp. He was staring at the poker again, nibbling gently on his lower lip. Turning from him, Kramer went back over to the drinks cabinet, hiding a frown. He was puzzled by his own behaviour, by the way he’d not attempted to see whether Kennedy had known how many times his mother had been stabbed, when she’d been stabbed, what her state of dress—or undress—had been. It was often amazing, the way even the cleverest killers could let something slip right at the start, before their nerves had steadied and they’d grown accustomed to being questioned. Yet Kramer had played no games with him, had simply given the main facts to him straight, just as though it’d never crossed his mind that Kennedy, being the deceased’s closest relative, should be treated as a major suspect.
Carefully, he poured another double tot, still frowning.
A major suspect? Christ, he hadn’t regarded the man as a suspect at all, not from the first moment of setting eyes on him. He had liked the bloke; it was as simple as that—an intuitive response based on God knows what. On top of which, Kennedy’s reactions had since struck him as entirely genuine, reinforcing the same feeling—but of course this nonsense now had to stop.
“Look, sir,” he said, turning with the refilled glass, “it is necessary for me to ask some questions.”
Kennedy did not appear to hear him. He went on staring atthe brass poker, his teeth clamped hard on his lower lip and a trickle of blood running down his chin.
“God in Heaven,” muttered Colonel Muller, glancing at the proffered press card, “how did you get here so fast?”
“I lucked out, I guess, sir. Flew down from our Johannesburg bureau on another assignment and—”
“But why
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